


Cold Spaces Between The Planets

by mydogwatson



Series: Once Upon A Time At Xmas [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Multi, Sex is complicated, The universe works slowly, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 17:35:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5465063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John don't meet each other.  <br/>They are both miserable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Spaces Between The Planets

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry this is a bit late posting. Holiday stuff. And trying to get the rest of the story ready to travel with me tomorrow.
> 
> Hope you are still enjoying these!

…it is an air in which men perish  
utterly.

-Hilaire Belloc

 

“Shite. Holy buggering shite.”

John whispered the words to the ceiling, not wanting to awaken the sleeping figure next to him. He tried to remember her name and, failing that, tried to remember if he had even asked her name. The stench of cheap red vino and the pot she’d smoked hung thickly in the air of her room, almost but not quite over-powering the smell of sweat and sex.

It occurred to him to reconstruct what had happened the previous night.

Okay. Reconstructing.

It had seemed as if he were completely alone in the residence hall; although that made him wonder if he could really be the only student who did not want to go home for Xmas? Possibly. And, yes, it was a bit lonely hanging about an empty building, but still better than enduring the holidays with his never-quite-sober mother and his belligerent never-quite-drunk sister. 

At some point on Xmas Eve, he had bundled up and left the hall in search of some dinner. After a burger and chips at a cheap place three streets away, he spent some time just wandering the area and looking at the Xmas decorations.

When he started to feel the cold, he headed back. 

And then discovered that he was not, in fact, the only pathetic being spending the season of joy stuck in a university residence hall. Although it had to be admitted that the girl, who looked only vaguely familiar to John, did not seem pathetic. She was actually roller blading through the long corridor and singing White Christmas as she went. The behaviour seemed less odd once John smelled the joint she was smoking.

It was rare to see so many rules being broken all at once. 

Abigail, that was it. Oh, it was a good thing he had remembered her name. Rather bad form, otherwise, especially for the co-captain of the rugby team.

He still didn’t remember who had introduced the dreadful wine into the evening. Or the sex, for that matter. Maybe it didn’t matter. He was relieved to see the used condom tied and tossed onto the floor, not being ready for either an STD or a pregnancy.

She was snoring a bit.

John decided that he really didn’t want to be there anymore. Which was probably also pretty bad form, but there it was. Somehow, even with only vague memories of the previous night, he did not think Abigail would mind if he just took off. She seemed an independent sort. But, really, he just wanted to go.

He moved slowly, carefully, easing his body from the bed, gathering his clothes from the floor and dressing quickly. She slept on.

John hurried over to the north wing of the building, where his room was located. First item on the agenda was a long hot shower. Then he dressed in sweats, made a cup of tea, and crawled into his own bed. Someone in his biology lab had given him a tin of Xmas biscuits, so he opened it and had six or eight with the tea.

This was, he decided, his worst Xmas ever. Worse than the time his father was so drunk that he knocked over the whole decorated tree and then swatted John for crying about it. Worse than the year they were so broke that the only present he got was that astronomy book from the kid…Sherlock, right? The posh violin player.

Okay, that had been nice.

He wondered just fleetingly what Sherlock was doing for Xmas. Something posh, no doubt. John reached for another biscuit.

But, yes, this Xmas sucked and having a drunken fuck with a girl named Abigail did not make it any better. The silence of the residence hall seemed to press in on him suddenly and he pulled the blanket up over his head, feeling about six again, hiding from the chaos that was the Watson household.

Self-pity was pathetic. But it was Xmas and since the biscuits he’d just eaten were the only gift he was going to get and the meaningless sex he’d had the night before was the only human contact he would have, John decided that if he just wanted to huddle here and feel sorry for himself, that was fine.

It was all fine.

*

This was a mistake.

Sherlock knew that for certain as soon as he stepped off the train right behind Victor. If it had been possible, he would have turned around and gone right back to Cambridge and spent the holidays alone in his room, as had been his original plan. That had sounded much more appealing than going to Paris with his parents, although he had been invited. He suspected that the invitation had been prompted more by obligation than any real desire to have him along. His parents, much as they loved him, tended to find their youngest son rather tiresome these days. They were not alone in that, of course.

But Victor had pressed him and pressed him to come to Surrey. “Really, Sherlock,” he drawled. “The old man has a lovely selection of whiskies and champagne. The chef is topnotch. You needn’t sit alone in this hovel and eat pot noodles.”

“As if I would,” Sherlock replied disdainfully. He had several local eateries more than willing to deliver meals to him, if necessary. 

But Victor kept at him, until it was easier to just agree to accompany him home rather than continuing to argue about it.

Now, however, Sherlock was very much regretting the whole thing. Especially in light of the fact that during the entire train trip Victor had been staring at him with a certain amount of heat in his gaze.

It would be much harder here, in the Trevor home, to tell Victor that the whole sex thing, while mildly interesting for a time, had become something of a bore now. Sherlock had really no desire to ‘escalate’ as Victor kept hinting at. Mutual hand jobs had basically told Sherlock everything he needed to know.

The house itself was as tacky as Sherlock had anticipated it would be. More money than taste, as Mummy sometimes said. At least there was no suggestion of sharing a bedroom, although the guest room was right across the corridor from Victor’s room. He subtly checked that there was a lock.

In the end, of course, none of that mattered, because the visit ended almost as soon as it started. They only made it halfway through dinner in the gilt and velvet dining room, before Sherlock started talking. Started deducing. He never really did it on purpose; it was as if the words just came out without his permission or intention.

Mycroft always said that someone was going to impale him with a carving knife one day and from the way old man Trevor was looking at him this might actually be that day.

Victor let his fork fall onto the plate with a clatter. “What the fuck, Sherlock?”

Oh. Apparently Victor hadn’t known about the embezzlement. Or the mistress, for that matter. Well, that only meant his father was a fool to start bragging about his business success right in front of Sherlock Holmes.

Still. Probably not good. Sherlock finally shut up. Mrs Trevor left the dining room in a bit of a huff and the old man followed soon after. The room was silent for a few moments. Sherlock took a sip of the wine, which was actually very nice.

“What is wrong with you?” Victor finally said. “Are you mental or just an arsehole like everyone says?”

There didn’t seem any satisfactory answer that could be made to a question like that, so Sherlock attempted none.

After Victor made a few more choice comments about Sherlock’s limited sexual repertoire, his frankly peculiar looks, and his generally freakish nature, he left the room as well.

Sherlock slowly finished his wine.

Then he stood and went to the guestroom to collect his bag.

It started to rain about halfway through his walk to the train station, so he was drenched and chilled by the time he arrived. There was an hour to wait before the train he needed was due in, so Sherlock sat on a wooden bench in the corner and tried to get warm.

He knew that it was going to be even more unpleasant than usual at uni now, since Victor had been his only friend, if that is what they were. Or used to be. And since Victor was popular, people had tended to leave Sherlock mostly alone.

Well, there was nothing to be done about it now.

The sound system was playing a particularly horrid version of The Waltz of the Flowers and Sherlock leant back against the bench, closing his eyes, and listening.

The music niggled at his memory, but he could not imagine why, as the Nutcracker was not a particular favourite of his. He could have searched it out in his newly emerging Mind Palace, but it wasn’t important enough to bother. 

He decided to view this whole incident as an important lesson in life. Much as it pained him to admit it, Mycroft was right. Better to stand on your own and avoid any kind of close attachment. Anything like that would always end in disaster. Here was more proof, if he had needed any.

Maybe he could ask his hateful brother how long it took to get over the loneliness.

**Author's Note:**

> Tomorrow: The Dangerous World


End file.
